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Copyright,  1SS5, 
By   Charles  E.  Wentworth. 


University  Press: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


■"'a  F  Tvt"       "^''^  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold g 

And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 

Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees ii 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry. 

With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array 13 

They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  eve, 

Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  delight 14 

Her  maiden  eyes  divine,  fix'd  on  the  floor, 

Saw  many  a  sweeping  train  pass  by 15 

Meantime,  across  the  moors  had  come  young  Porphyro 17 

He  startled  her ;   but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 

And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand 19 

Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see 

When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously 21 

But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to  grieve 22 

"  Ah,  why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul  ? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing  " 25 

When  Madeline,  St.  Agnes'  charmed  maid, 

Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit,  unaware 27 


As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon, 

Rosebloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest 29 

Clasped  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray 31 

Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 

From  Fez 32 

And  spiced  dainties,  every  one. 

From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon -ij 


He  play'd  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute. 
In  Provence  call'd  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy. 

Pendant,  Still  Life 


Her  eyes  wide  open,  but  she  still  beheld. 

Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep 37 

Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 

Blendeth  its  odor  with  the  violet 39 

Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found 41 

By  one  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide, 

The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones 42 

Tailpiece 43 


THE    EVE    OF    ST.    AGNES. 


St.  Agnes'  Eve  —  Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold ; 
Numb  were  the  Beadsman's  fingers  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven  without  a  death. 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 


II. 

His  prayer  he  saith,  this  patient,  holy  man; 
Then  takes  his  lamp,  and  riseth  from  his  knees, 
And  back  returneth,  meagre,  barefoot,  wan, 
Along  the  chapel  aisle  by  slow  degrees : 
The  sculptured  dead  on  each  side  seem'd  to  freeze, 
Emprison'd  in  black,  purgatorial  rails. 
Knights,   ladies,  praying  in  dumb  orat'ries. 
He  passeth  by;   and  his  weak  spirit  fails 
To  think  how  they  may  ache  in  icy  hoods  and  mails. 


III. 

Northward  he  turneth  through  a  little  door, 
And  scarce  three  steps,  ere  Music's  golden  tongue 
Flatter'd  to  tears  this  aged  man  and  poor. 
But,  no  —  already  had  his  death-bell  rung; 
The  joys  of  all  his  life  were  said   and  sung: 
His  was  harsh  penance  on  St.  Agnes'  Eve ! 
Another  way  he  went,  and  soon  among 
Rough  ashes  sat  he  for  his  soul's  reprieve. 
And  all  night  kept  awake,  for  sinner's  sake  to  grieve. 


That  ancient  Beadsman  lieard  the  prelude  soft; 
And  so  it  chanced,  for  many  a  door  was  wide, 
From  hurry  to  and  fro.     Soon,  up  aloft, 
The  silver,  snarling  trumpets  'gan  to  chide ; 
Tlie  level  chambers,  ready  with  their  pride. 
Were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand  guests; 
The  carved  angels,  ever  eager-eyed, 
Stared,  where  upon  their  heads  the  cornice  rests. 
With  hair  blown  back,  and  wings  put  cross-wise  on  their  breasts. 


V. 

At  length  burst  in  the  argent  revelry, 
With  plume,  tiara,  and  all  rich  array, 
Numerous  as  shadows  haunting  fairily 
The  brain,  new  stufif'd  in  youth,  with  triumphs  gay 
Of  old  romance.     These  let  us  wish  away, 
And  turn,  sole-thoughted,  to  one  Lady  there. 
Whose  heart  had  brooded  all  that  wintry  day 
On  love,  and  wing'd  St.  Agnes'  saintly  care, 
As  she  had  heard  old  dames  full  many  times  declare. 


mr^i   *  iff  -J 


VI. 
They  told  her  how,  upon  St.  Agnes'  Eve, 
Young  virgins  might  have  visions  of  dehght. 
And  soft  adorings  from  their  loves  receive 
Upon  the  honey'd  middle  of  the  night, 
If  ceremonies  due  they  did  aright: 
As,  supperless  to  bed  they  must  retire, 
And  couch  supine  their  beauties,  lily  white; 
Nor  look  behind,  nor  sidewa}'s,  but  require 
Of  Heaven  with  upward  eyes  for  all  that  they  desire. 


VII. 
Full  of  this  whim  was  thoughtful  Madeline ; 
The  music,  }'earning  like  a  god  in  pain. 
She  scarcely  heard,  —  she  heeded  not  at  all.     In  vain 
Came  many  a-tiptoe,  amorous  cav-alier, 
And  back  retired;    not  cool'd  by  high  disdain. 
But  she  saw  not :    her  heart  was  otherwhere ; 
She  sigh'd  for  Agnes'  dreams,  the  sweetest  of  the  year. 


VIII. 
She  danced  along  with  vague,  regardless  eyes, 
Anxious  her  lips,  her  breathing  quick  and  short. 
The  hallow'd  hour  was  near  at  hand:    she  sighs 
Amid  the  timbrels,  and  the  throng'd   resort 
Of  whisperers  in  anger  or  in  sport; 
'iVIid  looks  of  love,  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Hoodwink'd  with  faery  fancy ;    all  amort, 
Save  to  St.  Agnes  and  her  lambs  unshorn. 
And  all  the  bliss  to  be  before  to-morrow  morn. 


IX. 
So,  purposing  each  moment  to  retire, 
She  linger'd  still.     Meantime,  across  the  moors 
Had  come  young  Porphyro,  v,?ith  heart  on  fire 
For  Madeline.     Beside  the  portal  doors, 
Buttress'd   from  moonlight,  stands  he,  and  implores 
All  saints  to  give  him  sight  of  Madeline, 
But  for  one  moment  in  the  tedious  hours. 
That  he  might  gaze  and  worship  all  unseen ; 
Perchance  speak,  kneel,  touch,  kiss —  in  sooth  such  things  have  been. 


X. 

He  ventures  in ;    let  no  buzz'd  whisper  tell ; 
All  eyes  be  muffled,  or  a  hundred  swords 
Will  storm  his  heart,  Love's  feverous  citadel. 
For  him  those  chambers  held  barbarian  hordes, 
Hyena  foemen,  and  hot-blooded  lords. 
Whose  very  dogs  would  execrations  howl 
Against  his  lineage;    not  one  breast  affords 
Him  any  mercy  in  that  mansion  foul, 
Save  one  old  beldame,  weak  in  body  and  in  soul. 

XI. 

Ah,  happy  chance  !   the  aged  creature  came, 
Shuffling  along  with  ivory-headed  wand 
To  where  he  stood,  hid  from  the  torch's  flame. 
Behind  a  broad  hall-pillar,  far  beyond 
The  sound  of  merriment  and  chorus  bland. 
He  startled  her;   but  soon  she  knew  his  face, 
And  grasp'd  his  fingers  in  her  palsied  hand. 
Saying,  "  Mercy,  Porphyro  !   hie  thee  from  this  place ! 
They  are  all  here  to-night,  the  whole  bloodthirsty  race ! 


XII. 
"  Get  hence  !   get  hence  !   there  's  dwarfish  Hildebrand  ; 
He  had  a  fever  iate,  and  in  the  fit 
He  cursed  thee  and  thhie,  both  house  and  land. 
Then  there's  that  old  Lord  Maurice,   not  a  whit 
More  tame  for  his  gra\'  hairs  —  Alas  me  !   flit ! 
Flit  like  a  ghost  away!"  —  "Ah,  Gossip  dear. 
We  're  safe  enough ;   here  in  this  arm-chair  sit, 
And  tell  me  how" — "Good  Saints!   not  here,  not  here! 
Follow  me,  child,  or  else  these  stones  will  be  thy  bier." 


XIII. 
He  follow'd  through  a  lowly  arched  way, 
Brushing  the  cobwebs  with  his  lofty  plume; 
And  as  she  mutter'd  "  Well-a  —  well-a-day  !  " 
He  found  him  in  a  little  moonlit  room. 
Pale,  latticed,  chill,  and  silent  as  a  tomb. 
"  Now  tell  me  where  is  Madeline,"  said  he ; 
"  O  tell  me,  Angela,  by  the  holy  loom 
Which  none  but  secret  sisterhood  may  see, 
When  they  St.  Agnes'  wool  are  weaving  piously." 


XIV. 

"  St.  Agnes !  Ah !  it  is  St.  Agnes'  Eve : 
Yet  men  will  murder  upon  holy  days ! 
Thou  must  hold  water  in  a  witch's  sieve, 
And  be  liege-lord  of  all  the  Elves  and  Fays, 
To  venture  so :   it  fills  me  with  amaze 
To  see  thee,  Porphyro  !  —  St.  Agnes'   Eve  ! 
God's  help !  my  lady  fair  the  conjurer  plays 
This  very  night:   good  angels  her  deceive! 
But  let  me  laugh  awhile,  I  've  mickle  time  to  grieve. 


XV. 
Feebly  she  laugheth  in  the  languid  moon, 
While  Porphyro  upon  her  face  doth  look, 
Like  puzzled  urchin  on  an  aged  crone 
Who  keepeth  close  a  wondrous  riddle-book, 
As  spectacled  she  sits  in  chimney'd  nook. 
But  soon  his  eyes  grew  brilliant,  when  she  told 
His  lady's  purpose ;   and  he  scarce  could  brook 
Tears,  at  the  thought  of  those  enchantments  cold, 
And  Madeline  asleep  in  lap  of  legends  old. 

XVI. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose, 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his  pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot:   then  doth  he  propose 
A  stratagem  that  makes  the  beldame  start. 
"  A  cruel  man  and  impious  thou  art ! 
Sweet  lady,  let  her  pray,  and  sleep  and  dream 
Alone  with  her  good  angels,  far  apart 
From  wicked  men  like  thee.     Go,  go  !   I  deem 
Thou  canst  not  surely  be  the  same  that  thou  didst  seem." 

XVII. 
"  I  will  not  harm  her,  by  all  saints  I  swear," 
Quoth  Porphyro.     "  Oh,  may  I  ne'er  find  grace 
When  my  weak  voice  shall  whisper  its  last  prayer. 
If  one  of  her  soft  ringlets  I  displace, 
Or  look  with  ruffian  passion  in  her  face ! 
Good  Angela,  believe  me  by  these  tears ; 
Or  I  will,  even  in  a  moment's  space. 
Awake  with  horrid  shout  my  foemen's  ears. 
And  beard  them,  though  they  be  more  fang'd  than  wolves  and  bears.' 


XVIII. 
"Ah!   why  wilt  thou  affright  a  feeble  soul? 
A  poor,  weak,  palsy-stricken,  churchyard  thing 
Whose  passing-bell  may  ere  the  midnight  toll ; 
Whose  prayers  for  thee,  each  morn  and  evening. 
Were  never  miss'd?"     Thus  'plaining  doth  she  bring 
A  gentler  speech  from  burning  Porphyro; 
So  woful,  and  of  such  deep  sorrowing. 
That  Angela  gives  promise  she  will  do 
Whatever  he  shall  wish,  betide  her  weal  or  woe : 

XIX. 

Which  was,  to  lead  him,  in  close  secrecy. 
Even  to  Madeline's  chamber,  and  there  hide 
Him  in  a  closet  of  such  privacy 
That  he  might  see  her  beauty  unespied. 
And  win  perhaps  that  night  a  peerless  bride, 
While  legion'd  fairies  paced  the  coverlet. 
And  pale  enchantment  held  her  sleepy-eyed. 
Never  on  such  a  night  have  lovers  met, 
Since  Merlin  paid  his  Demon  all  the  monstrous  debt 

XX. 

"It  shall  be  as  thou  wishest,"  said  the  Dame; 
"  All  cates  and  dainties  shall  be  stored  there 
Quickly  on  this  feast-night;  by  the  tambour  frame 
Her  own  lute  thou  wilt  see.     No  time  to  spare, 
For  I  am  slow  and  feeble,  and  scarce  dare 
On  such  a  catering  trust  my  dizzy  head. 
Wait  here,  my  child ;  with  patience  kneel  in  prayer 
The  while.     Ah !  thou  must  needs  the  lady  wed, 
Or  may  I  never  leave  my  grave  among  the  dead." 


XX!. 
So  saying,  she  hobbled  oft"  with  busy  fear. 
The  lover's  endless  minutes  slowly  pass'd. 
The  dame  return'd,  and  whisper'd  in  his  ear 
To  follow  her,  —  with  aged  eyes  aghast 
From  fright  of  dim  espial.     Safe  at  last, 
Through  many  a  dusky  gallery,  they  gain 
The  Maiden's  chamber,  silken,  hush'd,  and  chaste; 
Where  Porphyro  took  covert,  pleased  amain. 
His  poor  guide  hurried  back  with  agues  in  her  brain. 

XXII. 
Her  faltering  hand  upon  the   balustrade, 
Old  Angela  was  feeling  for  the  stair, 
When  Madeline  —  St.  Agnes'   charmed  maid 
Rose,  like  a  mission'd  spirit  unaware. 
With  silver  taper's  light,  and  pious  care, 
She  turn'd,  and  down  the  aged  gossip  led 
To  a  safe  level  matting.     Now  prepare, 
Young  Porphyro,  for  gazing  on  that  bed ! 
She  comes,   she  comes  again,  like  ring-dove  fray'd  and  fled ! 

XXIII. 
Out  went  the  taper  as  she  hurried  in ; 
Its  little  smoke  in  pallid  moonshine  died. 
She  closed  the  door,  she  panted,  all  akin 
To  spirits  of  the  air,  and  visions  wide: 
No  utter'd  syllable,  or  woe  betide ! 
But  to  her  heart  her  heart  was  voluble. 
Paining  with  eloquence  her  balmy  side,  — 
As  though  a  tongueless  nightingale  should  swell 
Her  throat  in  vain,  and  die,  heart-stifled,  in  her  dell. 


XXIV. 
A  casement  high  and  triple-arch'd  there  was, 
All  garlanded  with  carven  imageries 
Of  fruits  and  flowers  and  bunches  of  knot-grass, 
And  diamonded  with  panes  of  quaint  device, 
Innumerable  of  stains  and  splendid  dyes 
As  are  the  tiger-moth's  deep-damask'd  wings; 
And  in  the  midst,  'mong  thousand  heraldries. 
And  twilight  saints,  and  dim  emblazonings, 
A  shielded  'scutcheon  blush'd  with  blood  of  queens  and  kings. 

XXV. 
Full  on  this  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon. 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast; 
As  down  she  knelt  for  Heaven's  grace  and  boon 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest. 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint: 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven.  —  Porphyro  grew  faint: 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  mortal  taint. 

XXVI. 
Anon  his  heart  revives :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one, 
Loosens  her  fragrant  bodice ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees: 
Half-hidden  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed. 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  and  sees 
In  fancy  fair  St.  Agnes  in  her  bed, 
But  dares  not  look  behind,  or  all  the  charm  is  fled. 


XXVII. 
Soon,  trembling  in  her  soft  and  cliilly  nest. 
In  sort  of  wakeful  swoon,  perplex'd  slie  lay, 
Until  the  poppied  warmth  of  sleep  oppress'd 
Her  soothed  limbs,  and  soul  fatigued  away 
Flown  like  a  thought,  until  the  morrow  day 
Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain,  — 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 


XX\'III- 
Stolen  to  this  paradise,  and  so  entranced, 
Porphyro  gazed  upon  her  empty  dress. 
And  listen'd  to  her  breathing,  if  it  chanced 
To  wake  into  a  slumberous  tenderness ; 
Which  when  he  heard,  that  minute  did  he  bless. 
And  breathed  himself:   then  from  the  closet  crept, 
Noiseless  as  fear  in  a  wild  wilderness. 
And  over  the  hush'd  carpet,  silent,  stept, 
And  'tween  the  curtains  peep'd,  where,  lo ! — how  fast  she  slept. 


XXIX. 

Then  by  the  bed-side,  where  the  faded  moon 
Made  a  dim  sih'er  twihght,  soft  he  set 
A  table,  and,  half  anguish'd,  threw  thereon 
A  cloth  of  woven  crimson,   gold  and  jet,  — 
Oh,  for  some  drowsy  RIorphean  amulet ! 
The  boisterous,   midnight,   festive  clarion, 
The  kettle-drum,  and  far-heard  clarionet 
Affray  his  ears,  though  but  in  dying  tone.  — 
The  hall-door  shuts  again,  and  all  the  noise  is  gone. 


XXX. 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth,  and  lavender'd. 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum,  and  gourd ; 
With  jellies  soother  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucent  syrups,  tinct  with  cinnamon ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;   and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Samarcand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon. 


XXXI. 
These  delicates  he  heap'd  with  glowing  hand 
On  golden  dishes  and  in  baskets  bright 
Of  wreathed  sih-er:   sumptuous  they  stand 
In  the  retired  quiet  of  the  night, 
Filling  the  chilly  room  with  perfume  light.  — 
"  And  now,  my  love,  my  seraph  fair,  awake  ! 
Thou  art  my  heaven,  and  I  thine  eremite: 
Open  thine  e}-es,  for  meek  St.  Agnes'  sake, 
Or  I  shall  drowse  beside  thee,  so  mj'  soul  doth  ache." 

XXXII. 
Thus  whispering,  his  warm,  unnerved  arm 
Sank  in  her  pillow.     Shaded  was  her  dream 
By  the  dusk  curtains; — 'twas  a  midnight  charm 
Impossible  to  melt  as  iced  stream. 
The  lustrous  salvers  in  the  moonlight  gleam ; 
Broad  golden  fringe  upon  the  carpet  lies. 
It  seem'd  he  never,  never  could  redeem 
From  such  a  steadfast  spell  his  lady's  eyes : 
So  mused  awhile,  entoil'd  in  woofed  phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening  up,   he  took  her  hollow  lute,  — 
Tumultuous, — and,   in  chords  that  tenderest  be, 
He  pla\-'d  an  ancient  ditty,  long  since  mute, 
In  Provence  call'd  "  La  belle  dame  sans  mercy," 
Close  to  her  ear  touching  the  melody ; 
Wherewith  disturb'd,  she  utter'd  a  soft  moan. 
He  ceased  —  she  panted  quick  —  and  suddenly 
Her  blue  afifrayed  e}-es  wide  open  shone : 
Upon  his  knees  he  sank,  pale  as  smooth-sculptured  stone. 


XXXIV. 
Her  eyes  were  open,  but  she  still  beheld, 
Now  wide  awake,  the  vision  of  her  sleep : 
There  was  a  painful  change,  that  nigh  expell'd 
The  blisses  of  her  dream  so  pure  and  deep. 
At  which  fair  Madeline  began  to  weep, 
And  moan  forth  witless  words  with  many  a  sigh ; 
While  still  her  gaze  on  Porphyro  would  keep, 
Who  knelt,  with  joined  hands  and  piteous  eye, 
Fearing  to  move  or  speak,  she  look'd  so  dreamingly. 


XXXV. 
"  Ah,  Porphyro !  "  said  she,  "  but  even  now 
Thy  voice  was  at  sweet  tremble  in  mine  ear, 
Made  tunable  with  ever}'  sweetest  vow; 
And  those  sad  eyes  were  spiritual  and  clear. 
How  changed  thou  art !    how  pallid,  chill,  and  drear ! 
Give  me  that  voice  again,  my  Porphyro, 

Those  looks  immortal,  those  complainings  dear! 

Oh,  leave  nie  not  in  this  eternal  woe, 
For  if  thou  diest,  my  love,   I  know  not  where  to  go." 


XXXVI. 
Beyond  a  mortal  man  impassion'd  far 
At  these  voluptuous  accents,   he  arose 
Ethereal,  flush'd,  and  like  a  throbbing  star 
Seen  'mid  the  sapphire  heaven's  deep  repose ; 
Into  her  dream  he  melted,  as  the  rose 
Blendeth   its  odor  with  the  violet,  — 
Solution  sweet.     Meantime  the  frost-wind  blows 
Like  Love's  alarum,  pattering  the  sharp  sleet 
Against  the  window-panes:    St.  Agnes'  moon  hath  set. 

XXXVII. 
'Tis  dark;    quick  pattereth  the  flaw-blown  sleet: 
"This  is  no  dream,  my  bride,  my  Madeline!  " 
'Tis  dark;    the  iced  gusts  still  rave  and  beat: 
"  No  dream,  alas  !    alas  !    and  woe  is  mine  ! 
Porph)-ro  will   leave  me  here  to  fade  and   pine. 
Cruel!    what  traitor  could  thee  hither  bring? 
I  curse  not,  for  my  heart  is  lost  in  thine, 
Though  thou  forsakest  a  deceived  thing,  — 
A  dove  forlorn  and  lost,  with  sick  unpruned  wing." 

XXXVIII. 
"  My  Madeline  !   sweet  dreamer  !   lovely  bride  ' 
Say,  may  I  be  for  aye  thy  vassal  blest, 
Thy  beauty's  shield,  heart-shaped  and  vermeil  dyed? 
Ah,  silver  shrine,  here  will   I  take  my  rest 
After  so  many  hours  of  toil  and  quest, 
A  famish'd  pilgrim,  —  saved  by  miracle. 
Though  I  have  found,  I  will  not  rob  thy  nest 
Saving  of  thy  sweet  self;   if  thou  think'st  well 
To  trust,  fair  Madeline,  to  no  rude  infidel." 


XXXIX. 
"  Hark !   't  is  an  elfin  storm  from  faery  land. 
Of  haggard  seeming,  but  a  boon  indeed. 
Arise  —  arise!   the  morning  is  at  hand; 
The  bloated  wassailers  will   ne\-er  heed. 
Let  us  away,  my  love,  with  happy  speed ; 
There  are  no  ears  to  hear,  or  eyes  to  see,  — 
Drown'd  all  in  Rhenish  and  the  sleepy  mead ; 
Awake  !   arise  !   my  lo\'e,  and  fearless  be, 
For  o'er  the  Southern  moors   I   have  a  honie  for  thee." 


XL. 
She   hurried  at  his  words,  beset  with  fears, 
For  there  were  sleeping  dragons  all  around, 
At  glaring  watch,  perhaps,  with  ready  spears. 
Down  the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found,— 
In  all  the  house  was  heard  no  human  sound. 
A  chain-droop'd  lamp  was  flickering  by  each  door; 
The  arras,  rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
Flutter'd  in  the  besieging  wind's  uproar. 
And  the  long  carpets  rose  along  the  gusty  floor. 


XLI. 
They  glide,  like  phantoms,   into  the  wide  hall ; 
Like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch  they  glide, 
Where  lay  the  Porter,  in  uneasy  sprawl, 
With  a  huge  empty  flagon  by  his  side ; 
The  wakeful  bloodhound  rose,  and  shook  his  hide. 
But  his  sagacious  eye  an  inmate  owns. 
By  one,  and  one,  the  bolts  full  easy  slide ; 
The  chains  lie  silent  on  the  footworn  stones ; 
The  key  turns,  and  the  door  upon  its  hinges  groans. 


And  they  are  gone  !   ay,  ages  long  ago 
These  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 
That  night  the  Baron  dreamt  of  many  a  woe, 
And  all  his  warrior-guests,  with  shade  and  form 
Of  witch  and  demon  and  large  coffin-worm. 
Were  long  be-nightmared.     Angela  the  old 
Died  palsy-twitch'd,  with  meagre  face  deform  ; 
The  Beadsman,  after  thousand  aves  told. 
For  aye  unsought-for  slept  among  his  ashes  cold 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

THE 
HANES  FOUNDATION 

FOR  THE  STUDY  OF  THE 

ORIGIN  AND  DEVELOPMENT 

OF  THE  BOOK 

ESTABLISHED  BY  THE  CHILDREN  OF 
JOHN  WESLEY  AND 
ANNA  HODGIN  HANES 


RARE  BOOK  COLLECTION 

Keats 
PR4834 
.E8 
1885 


^m^ 


